


gut symmetries

by bunot



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Feelings Realization, First Meetings, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24854932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunot/pseuds/bunot
Summary: He lives inside himself and this is his greatest downfall. Because he's still wearing his mask and he just wants to know if Kita can see the smile behind it.Sakusa unearths his fossilized admiration for the memory of a boy now made solid.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 12
Kudos: 110





	gut symmetries

**Author's Note:**

> sakusa as a character was very interesting to maneuver. and when i say interesting i mean difficult, but also wonderful in the sense that i could self-insert my adoration of kita through him. 
> 
> i wanted to write something very rooted in canon for these characters who i would have loved to see interact.

There is no saving this night. 

Kiyoomi has decided that he hates everything to do with high school reunions.

His reasoning lies in the terrible UV 400 gaze that accompanies anyone trying to nonchalantly inflate their own ego, and in the eventual cliques of conversation that rise to defeat the entire purpose of reuniting, and in the fact that half these men probably see each other on a weekly basis anyways.

If someone were to tell Kiyoomi that becoming a Division 1 volleyball player would involve flying to Hyogo to be Atsumu Miya's entourage (Bokuto and Hinata included) for this sad attempt at a nostalgic get-together, he would have tried to save himself, too. 

The multipurpose room rented out for the 2019 Inarizaki Volleyball Club Reunion is functional at best.

Kiyoomi's sure the conversations that led up to booking it were plagued with miscommunication on what exactly was to occur, because the caterer didn't arrived until a few hours in, when Atsumu, Hinata, and Ginjima had already hijacked the karaoke and subjected the entire group to terrible city pop covers, and there were bleachers set up (presumably for playing volleyball— if that could actually happen on this 185 square meter carpet). 

He's standing outside on the patio with an unopened bottle of mugicha when he hears the sliding door click open and footsteps that break the bubble he has set up for himself. 

Discomfort deepens when he turns to face the soft white hair of a man he had only ever seen from an audience and through a recorded taping once. His instinct opens its mouth to greet him, but stops when he notices eyebrows knitted in frustration and the downwards sloping frown. 

Kita's eyes land on his, and suddenly everything wipes away. What replaces it is the expected-- steady eyes and a straight, expressionless mouth. He's perfected it enough that Kiyoomi almost second guesses if anything was wrong in the first place. 

"Hello, Sakusa," he says.

"Kita-san," Kiyoomi replies, pulling his mask down to his chin. 

"It's nice to see you here." He steps forward to the ledge, sharing in the mountainscape view and the milky blue sky.

"You too."

"I didn't know Atsumu was bringin' guests," Kita admits. "He should've told me."

"It wasn't voluntary." 

Kita presses a small smile, and Kiyoomi decides he likes the company. "I suppose he's still in need of some watchin' over these days."

He nods in response, wet condensation droplets from the bottle seeping onto his fingers. 

"They don't need you inside?" 

"Oomimi-kun can handle 'em," Kita waves a hand. "Sometimes I need my fresh air too."

He nods, and the other man continues.

"Besides, I'll be in Tokyo again in two weeks, anyways. I'll probably be dealin' with more than half the people in that room again." 

Kiyoomi follows his line of sight, from the small houses the line the ground like sleeping giants, up to the horizon.

"You're coming to Tokyo?"

"Yes. I'll be helpin' Osamu with the new Onigiri Miya branch."

"Oh."

They stand like that for at least ten minutes, spinal columns bent over and forearms resting against the wooden ledge, fascinated with the sun as round as a coin, looped in a cat's cradle strung from land to sky.

At some point, Kita's shoulders fall lax and Kiyoomi breaks from the statue to put the bottle down and dry his fingers against the side of his pants. When he lifts back up, the older man is looking right at him with an expression he can't read. 

"Saku-" he begins, but his voice is slightly hoarse from disuse. He clears it and tries again. "Sakusa." 

"Yes?" Kiyoomi asks, forcing himself to sound as neutral as possible.

"Do you happen to use Safeguard soap?"

"What?"

"Safeguard soap," the older man repeats. "I used to buy them in bulk but recently it's been irritatin' my granny's skin."

Kiyoomi isn't conscious of the way his lips curl up gently. He wants to gut this moment like a fish. 

"I _do_ use Safeguard," he nods, and an archaic smile presents itself on Kita's lips. It's a face he had seen on a roll-in TV once before.

 _Thud._

They turn back to the glass door. Inside the multipurpose room the twins and Bokuto stand behind the two useless benches, one of which is entirely flipped over. 

Kiyoomi suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, instead pulling his mask back on to frown. Aran Ojiro is running to pull it back up, with Bokuto and Osamu helping in obvious guilt, and the surrounding party continue on as if nothing odd has occurred. Probably because, well, nothing odd has occurred.

Kita, ever unphased, turns back to Kiyoomi still smiling.

"Do I have your phone number?"

______________________

Kiyoomi realized he liked boys when he was fifteen and felt cheated. Putting "homosexuality" with "mysophobia" sounded like something from an online character trait generator, like the gods had a pot of nouns and they were picking at random. He could count about five people he'd met since birth who understood the concept of total cleanliness. None of them were men.

"Today we'll be watching Inarizaki's qualifying match," Iizuna-san announced to the team gathered around the rolled-in TV in typical post-practice observation. 

Kiyoomi had fished the mask from his pocket and took a seat up in the front, where Motoya was planted. At the time it seemed his cousin was always eager to observe game footage, even when they weren't preparing to go against the specific teams themselves.

Kiyoomi, on the other hand, didn't enjoy having the personal knowledge of how other players maneuvered towards victory. He felt it was something way too intimate to be watching, like unearthing an ancient item and shedding light on someone's fossilized dreams. But Iizuna-san insisted it was a good habit to instill, and Kiyoomi couldn't bring himself to argue with that man since he had found out he carried his own lint roller.

The footage began, cropped to what seemed to be a specific play of the game's second set. It was the winning match that got Inarizaki to become the Hyogo representatives for the upcoming Spring tournament. Kiyoomi had met Atsumu at training camp a few months prior, and was coming to realize that the boy represented only a fraction of the overall intimidating team. 

A service ace from the other team pushed Inarizaki's score down by two. They were about to go in for another when Inarizaki called a timeout. 

The footage cut to a shot taken from a low angle opposite side bleachers. In the center of the frame a boy with soft chiseled cheeks sat. His eyebrows, straight and tamed, stayed in expressionless thought. His white hair seemed nearly translucent through the screen, except towards the tips where they stayed black. 

Mystery boy's hand had moved in small, circular motions against the clipboard he was holding and Kiyoomi immediately recognized the ritual as cleaning. He was scrubbing a rag against the laminated paper, fully wiping it off. Then, the rag was being folded into a perfect square, used-side hidden, and set on the bench.

Kiyoomi's skin had felt hot enough to pasteurize every inch of the room. He wanted to disappear from the way his eyes betrayed him, glazed over in struck fiction for a boy on a screen. 

Said boy was speaking quickly now, pointing between Aran Ojiro and Atsumu Miya with such finality in his expression. The background music completely masked whatever was escaping his mouth in fervor. But he was still fulfilling the time out like a promise, unearthing the fossilized dream until it took a living breath. 

When they broke and returned to their positions, the other team followed through with a shaky serve. Inarizaki's number two quickly came in with a receive, followed by number five bumping it up to the front. Then, in a swift movement, Atsumu twisted his torso in an effort to provide a steady jump set. Suna Rintarou's ability to manipulate the other team's blockers in a deceit came in handy right before Ojiro, a powerhouse in himself, leaped to slam a straight. 

Then, in the next wide range shot, Kiyoomi caught sight of white hair ascending from the linoleum, jacket hanging off from his shoulders like a seal of diplomacy.

"Kita-san!" The audio picked up Suna's call, and the boy responded by smiling, wide and proud. He clapped twice and members scurried to their positions for their turn to serve. The jacket fluttered back down.

Iizuna-san paused the TV on this exact shot, and Kiyoomi stared at the illusive pixels until he was almost sure he could manifest skin itself. 

"Can anyone give me an exact run through of the play their captain outlined?" He had asked.

It was useless, Kiyoomi thought. This exercise, and also the labels. Being afraid of things he couldn't yet see. Longing for experiences he didn't yet know of. It would make for terrible small talk growing up.

Beside him, Motoya raised a hand. 

______________________

He gets a call exactly fourteen days after the reunion. At the time, they had exchanged phone numbers right before Ginjima bursted through the sliding door to drag Kita back in, and Kiyoomi was left to think about the fact that he had finally met the once-mystical Inarizaki captain in the flesh. 

Except there was no longer a scorching desire within him. It had been years and Kiyoomi was twenty-two now, old enough to recognize his touch-starved teenage self was just craving any contact with another body, and one who happened to know the correct way to fold a rag appeared. He had met the elusive Kita-san now. He thought it was over.

"Hello?"

"Sakusa," the voice on the phone greets, porcelain timid. "How are you?" 

He's in this kitchen polishing wood. His tall standing fan is situated two meters away, producing a light breeze to keep him from smelling the varnish through his mask. It had been the first thing on his mind since he finished practice and the team was granted a week off. 

"I'm doing well," he replies. 

"I'm here in Tokyo now," Kita reminds. 

"Oh, right." He dips the paintbrush in, then scrapes it along the side of the box to remove any excess.

"And I was wonderin' when you're free to come visit," he continues. "I got all the bar soap in my hotel room right now."

The Safeguard. He had forgotten. 

"I can pick it up any time," he says, vague enough to not be held accountable. Except Kita seems to break through.

"Is today okay?" 

"Huh?"

"I have plans tomorrow and I don't know if you'll be free the whole week, so if you're able to come pick it up today that'd be great." 

It sounds a lot like a veiled threat, but Kiyoomi accepts his ego death. He brushes against the grain of the wood once, twice, until he decides to take up the challenge. He puts the brush back in the varnish. 

"Alright," he stands up, "if you send me the address I'll be there in half an hour."

______________________

When Kita opens the door, Kiyoomi is met with the notes of classical music playing from the television. The room smells like cold blasted AC air and a million other bodies that have inhabited the space for indeterminable amounts of time. 

"Kita-san," he nods.

"Come in, come in," the man gestures. "You can keep your shoes on."

Kiyoomi thinks of being in a small hotel room with Kita. It terrifies him. He steps inside. 

Kita makes a beeline to the small cabinet above his sink counter. Kiyoomi regards the bags of rice piled against the TV stand, and the single suitcase open atop a foldable stand. "Do you want tea? I know I only got a microwave but it's better than nothin'."

Kiyoomi nods as he walks to the small table in the corner, "Yes please."

Kita's fingers graze the mugs lined up in the cabinet provided. He picks out two, rinsing them in the sink and then evenly filling them with water from a freshly opened bottle.

"I hope you're doing well," Kita starts,"I haven't met with Osamu yet but I passed by today. It's a fine looking place." His arms reach up to place the cup in the microwave. "What makes you so free these days?"

Kiyoomi decides to lift his deadweight by actually speaking. "There aren't any games coming up soon so we have a week off from practice."

"That sounds nice," he assures. 

"It is. Any time away from Atsumu is a good time."

The microwave beeps smother Kita's laugh as he brings the mugs over. The steam releases into the air and its presence is palpable and tactile and everything Kiyoomi thinks he is not in this moment. 

"I was very glad to hear the news that you continued playing volleyball." 

"Really?"

"Of course," Kita sips. "You were always destined to become a great ace."

He is trying to speak a word of thanks, but he wants everything he says to this man to be of substance. 

"Do you miss it?"

Kita grips his mug gently. "No. But I suppose sometimes I like bein' around others."

Kiyoomi nods and he continues.

"That's why I think coming here for the week is nice." He looks up. "I get to be in the presence of great people again."

A few moments pass of their silent sipping. It's as calming as varnishing wood, when the view is no longer the mountain but Kita's sloping shoulders. Finally he asks,

"The soap?" 

Kita puts his mug down. "Oh, that's right. Come here."

Kiyoomi pockets his mask entirely and follows Kita to the hotel's only closet. He opens the doors and the smell of aloe seeps out like a thick perfume, settling between them like clean continuous time. Kiyoomi's eyes travel from the empty hangers down to the wooden crate, sitting in the very center of the floor. Inside, perfectly arranged in an eased tetris rectangle, are several stacks of boxed soaps.

"Kita-san," he begins, but is at a loss. Here they are in this damned hotel room, and Kiyoomi has completely buried his ego because of some antibacterial omniscience. 

"It'll probably last you a few months," he replies, hauling the crate out. "I'm sure your Division 1 muscles can carry it out."

"Thank you," he manages, taking it from him. It's not too heavy, and Kiyoomi is able to grip the wood with both of his hands. He will take it home and polish it as well. 

"No problem," Kita replies. "If anything you're saving Granny's life here so I should be thanking you." 

His smile returns, and Kiyoomi keeps his knees from buckling. The smell of aloe stays with him, after they have finished their drinks, out the door, and during the ride home on the train.

______________________

He and Motoya loitered on the bus that day after Iizuna-san dismissed them from practice. They sat in the back and shared a bag of potato chips and by sharing that meant Kiyoomi would watch Motoya crunch them with his mouth open, and occasionally lean over to clean the crumbs off the chair with a couple napkins.

They were resting at a stop when, out the window, a bird fluttered out from the tree and onto the nearest telephone pole line. The click of a camera had gone off, and Kiyoomi finally noticed a girl was there all that time, waiting to take a photo.

"Do you know in some cultures photographs are terrifying?" Motoya asked.

Kiyoomi did not answer. His cousin did not care.

"They think that some part of your soul will be imprisoned in the picture. I guess that's why they call it capturing an image, you know?"

Silence.

The bird flew off the wire, the girl walked away, and Motoya tried a different route.

"At this rate you might become the top ace in the country," He had taunted, eyebrows wigging.

Kiyoomi decided to indulge him with a counter.

"You say that as number one libero." 

"You know that's all thanks that's your freaky wrists," he pointed. "And now they're on their way to beating teams all the way from Hyogo."

Kiyoomi thought something about the idea of beating Inarizaki. That something was shaped a lot like _I have that boy's face so ingrained in my memory now that if I close my eyes these freaky wrists could probably sculpt the very arch of his brow._

Instead, he had said, "Inarizaki seems very dedicated to winning." 

"Well so are you," Motoya bumped him with a jacketed elbow. "Don't sell yourself short, Omi." 

He was dedicated. He had spent all these years imagining the rush of following the curve of a ball after a spike. Of someone telling him he did well when it counted. Of watching the ball descend with a subtle glint, only to be touched by the skin of another boy. 

"I think I'm gay," he stated.

Motoya had been unphased, even at this circle of life. "Okay," he replied, and popped another chip in. "At least you're not a 2D soul." Cue eyebrow wiggling. 

Kiyoomi noded, and it was all three dimensional. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and reached over to brush the newfound crumbs onto his napkin. 

______________________

On his fourth day off he goes grocery shopping. He is running low on bleach powder and stainless steel scrubbers, and doesn't want to wait to see the supply gone.

Despite not enjoying going outside, Kiyoomi likes the tile floors and too-bright lights of a supermarket. Everything feels presentable when shopping for sustenance, like eating with eyes.

He's in the bathroom aisle when he hears the padding of boots make its way towards him. 

"Sakusa?"

He turns and finds himself faced with a bundle of Kita again. 

"Hi, Kita-san." 

His cart contains a 6 pack of bottled water, CoQ10 pills, fish oil pills, a few women's tabloid magazines, and five boxes of a new brand of soap. It's a bit concerning for a farmer in his mid-twenties. Kita must sense his staring, because he laughs lightly.

"The only thing for me in here is the water." 

Kiyoomi entertains the thought of Kita Shinsuke reading gossip columns.

"I would have hoped."

Kita waits patiently as Kiyoomi eyes the shelf selection. 

"I'm heading to Onigiri Miya tomorrow mornin', so I wanted to do some shopping beforehand."

Kiyoomi nods. "Do you need bleach powder, too?"

"Yes, please," Kita replies, and pushes his cart forward. Kiyoomi wipes the cylinder in one downwards spiral swipe, then places it in. As he does the same for his own basket, Kita speaks again. 

"I'm buyin' bleach powder to clean the hotel tub," he explained. "You can never be too careful."

Kiyoomi feels a weight lift off him, as if he was no longer a burden or an oddity, but someone to connect with. Something to understand. "I do that too. Every time we fly and play an away game, I bring an extra sheet as well."

He sees Kita smile privately, as if his sudden choice to speak has sparked some deep memory within him.

They make their way towards the checkout line and Kita waits in line as Kiyoomi goes up to the cashier to pay, sliding his card, then wiping it off right after use, just before tucking it back into his wallet. It's Kita's turn and after the lady gives his card back he turns to catch Kiyoomi's gaze.

"Sakusa, I know I'm not my granny, but do you think you could help me load some of this stuff into the car?"

So Kiyoomi takes the bulk of the plastic bags and they walk past the automatic sliding doors, into the small parking lot. 

Kita's truck smells like the earth. Like it has traveled many stories to get here. 

"Just in the passenger's seat is fine," Kita says, and Kiyoomi places the bags on the seat one by one. "I'm very thankful to keep seein' you."

Kiyoomi's throat has adopted a thick dryness with the small confession.

"Me too."

He checks to make sure it's his bag with the bleach powder. 

"It's nice to know that I'm not the only one sometimes," Kita continues. Overhead, a flock of birds pass by, and Kiyoomi feels his heartbeat thrum. 

"Don't ever apologize for existin' the way you do, Sakusa." 

He breaks. Not like porcelain, but like waves, loud and crashing onto some shore of feeling. He lives inside himself and this is his greatest downfall. Because he's still wearing his mask and he just wants to know if Kita can see the smile behind it.

"I won't. Thank you, Kita-san." 

He hums in response, climbing into the driver seat, and Kiyoomi takes it to walk himself to the nearest station with only his thoughts.

______________________

"It's gonna be the best night ever," Atsumu assured, cradling a plum in his hand. 

He had been leaning against the doorframe of the locker room, waiting for Kiyoomi to finish packing up. Somewhere, outside, Hinata was also waiting for them, too. It was a post-practice routine, for the three of them to only part ways at the front of the gym. 

"I don't think people bring their professional team to a reunion," Kiyoomi replied, and zipped his knee pads into their own separate pouch. People brought things like expensive wine, or a pre-packaged cheese platter. Not three other volleyball-ridden bodies.

"So what? Shouyou-kun and I are still gonna sweep the floor with karaoke."

He didn't have the patience to tell him karaoke wasn't a tournament.

"I'm just tryin' to think of what you're even gonna do there, now," Atsumu continued, chewing with his mouth open like a heathen. "I feel like I'm gonna have to entertain you."

His brain truly amazed Kiyoomi. Its ability to focus on a maximum of two things at a time always made for banter that never got deeper than a two inch observation. 

"You're not going to entertain anyone," Kiyoomi deadpanned, lifting his duffle bag up. 

Atsumu had raised his voice now, a strange excitement taking over. "You could see Sunarin again! Talk about Komori or somethin'."

"I don't need to talk about my cousin with other people."

"Well, 'Tsumu and you can talk. Plus Aran-kun!" He jested. "Aw, there's all your volleyball fix for the day."

"Atsumu-"

"And Kita-san will be there, too." Atsumu had said at last, and a few chunks of plum flew out onto the wall. "I think you two would get along."

______________________

That night, after returning from helping Kita carry his groceries, Kiyoomi wakes up from a dream that leaves him sweating in his skin. 

A line of questioning enters his body like an army of pathogens: how does he wake up with bruised knees when all he did was lie down? Why does he keep dreaming of water so often? Does it want to clean or heal? How did Kita know he would want the soap? What other shapes does Kita's mouth make-- his open, hungry, fulsome mouth-- the hidden life it lives when it's not pressed into feigned stoicism? How does he set his teeth in place when he finally falls asleep? Is it in a way that no dust can enter? 

He decides to take a shower to scrub off the sweat that has accumulated in his hollow. The shower's glass door is coaxed open, and he steps into the cold and wet, into an unhinged jaw that carries him gently like another mother.

His shoulders roll forward, so the vertebrae on his neck stick up in tiny curves, and the water droplets fall into the grooves. The new soap bar sits like a slice of teeth. It is pristine and untouched by sticky longing. 

Kiyoomi throws caution to the wind. His fingers curl around it, and he lets his chest fall as it finally presses to his skin. 

Here, with a hitch of breath, the substance coats his languid skin. From the nape of his neck sloping down to his shoulders.

It makes him feel branded. Like his corporeal form could glow from the pure white all over, all over, all over. 

______________________

He tries to sleep, but does this poorly as well. It's always either little or too much. He throws himself out of an unsuitable balcony ledge, only to reel back in horror from a simple view out of a hotel window.

Kiyoomi needs to see him again.

______________________

  
  


When Kita opens the door he is still wearing the same pair of loose blue jeans and a black t-shirt that shows the dip of skin just below his collarbone. The world shoots up in flames. It's been an hour of thinking and twenty minutes of patient sitting and Kiyoomi can't hold it in any more.

It's the same way Kita can't hide behind stoicism now. Kiyoomi catches the way his gaze flickers from Kiyoomi's hands to his lips to his brows to finally resting on his cheeks, right below the eyes. 

"Sakusa," he greets, but it's too out of breath tonight.

"Kita-san," is the reply.

The door closes behind him. The brown rice bags are still sitting right by the area where his shoes are. 

"I'm sure you can get here with you with your eyes closed now," Kita starts, heading towards the cupboard to grab two glasses and a water bottle. 

It's this that drives Kiyoomi crazy. The way he doesn't question Kiyoomi's unprompted visit, just jumps into conversation. As if he was already on his way to make tea and not about to go to bed. As if his entire existence in this moment is just to simply provide Kiyoomi company. As if he already knows everything Kiyoomi came here to tell him.

The whole scene keeps Kiyoomi suspended in midair, some sort of Ferrofluid magnetism where he can't seem to crash himself onto the filthy carpet floor. He needs to just do it. 

"Kita-san, I watched footage of an Inarizaki game once." 

Kita still himself at the pouring. Puts the bottle down, and turns to face him. He knows something like this commands attention.

"You did?"

Kiyoomi nods, chin moving in such a way his head could snap off.

"It was the game that won the Hyogo Spring Interhigh qualifier. In 2012."

"Oh," he says in something like awe. "That was a very taxing game."

Kiyoomi stares at the skin just below Kita's collarbones, then lifts his head up to look him in the eyes, and it's enough to make his limbs feel viscid. 

"I think I admired you before I even knew who you were." 

"That's... that's very noble of you to say, Sakusa."

He needs to keep going.

"And I really hated the reunion."

Kita's eyebrows knit again. "You did?"

"Afterwards I kept trying to lose my patience so my brain could forget about how much it likes you."

"Sakusa…" 

"But it likes you so much I feel like I keep reliving a memory."

Kita is making his way towards the table now, cups abandoned. Kiyoomi pushes himself off the chair and begins heading in the opposite direction, towards the door.

"If you need help unloading tomorrow, or any time this month, you can call me," he adds as an addendum, thinking it too is vague enough to dodge accountability. But Kita sees through it now, as he always had. 

"What if I don't want to call?" He asks.

"What?" 

Kiyoomi feels the tug of his jacket sleeve and is quickly spun around, face to face with the mystery man now solid all over, all over, all over. 

"What if I want you to stay?"

______________________

There is no saving himself. 

Kita, too, brought a spare sheet from home to lay atop the hotel bed and Kiyoomi wonders why he ever tried in the first place. After two hours of talking, their tea sits abandoned on the table, next to Kiyoomi's cell phone and car keys. When he takes a seat on the bed, Kita follows and presses his shoulder into the frame. 

As they lean back, he falls onto one side and grasps Kita's shoulders like a raft. His nose lands on the damn neck he's been thinking about since his first year of high school, where sweat has left a small sheen like dish soap residue. 

"You think it's so strange for me but I watch you on TV all the time, Sakusa," he says, and it sounds like the sigh of chimes.

A hand reaches up behind, cautious, and Kiyoomi doesn't say a word but buries his face further into the crook. Kita seems to take that as a sign to continue. 

His fingers land in the jet black waves, brushing them ever so gently to tuck behind Kiyoomi's ear.

"You smell like the soap," he whispers. 

When Kiyoomi finally looks up, he's met with HD eyes. He wants them now. 

"Can I kiss you?" 

Only the light of the digital alarm clock illuminates the deepest parts of his face when he nods.

When they break apart, Kita's eyes are still closed.

"Kita-san," he whispers, and his fingers reach out to brush cheekbones. Eyelids flutter open. 

"Feel better?" He asks. 

Kiyoomi nods. It's better than a fleeting dream he had in his teenage years.

"You're here."

The other man cradles him like something precious. His hands reach out to flatten against Kiyoomi's abdomen, fingers having climbed over all that waist just to rest there. 

"I'm here."

______________________

Kiyoomi decides that maybe there is some indulgence in waking him up forty minutes past 7AM to climb in a too-hot truck that smells of dried mud. 

He likes driving in the heavy dusk to a shop where a particular pair of brothers are waiting. He likes knowing that the trunk bed is piled high with bags of the country's finest grains of rice, and they will keep quietly discussing which lane to stay in and what exits to take, all over an unrecognizable composition by Tchaikovsky at level 15 volume.

They are minutes away from the edge of something terrible when Kita swiftly turns the volume dial down at the next red light. 

"You okay?" He asks. 

"I'm okay," Kiyoomi states, and readjusts his left glove where the fabric folded into itself. "Are you?"

"I'm good," is the reply, and the same archaic smile. 

"Have you… told Atsumu?" Kiyoomi asks. 

"No, I thought you did."

"Well," Kiyoomi feels like he's won a jackpot lottery. "I guess he'll just be surprised when we get there." 

"Sakusa," again. 

"Kita-san," he parrots.

"Do you think it will rain tomorrow?" 

The sky has taken a sheen of stone grey clouds, gently tumbling over the graveyard of power lines at the site they have temporarily stopped at. Water is soon to come, to cleanse and to heal. 

"No," Kiyoomi deadpans, then shifts his gaze to Kita's fingers wrapped around the steering wheel. 

The man beside him laughs, a full-throttled relief that spills out of his mouth, along with some syllables Kiyoomi couldn't hear. 

"What did you say?" He asks.

"Nothing," Kita responds. "Just that walking up to you during the reunion was one of my best decisions." 

Kiyoomi twists his torso despite the shallow breaths that plague him from the chest up. He leans forward to kiss the soft skin of the man's temple, sweet and lingering.

Kita hums in content, then turns the volume back up to 15.

The light turns green for them to keep rolling on.

**Author's Note:**

> :D title from Jeanette Winterson


End file.
